


Promise (I’m Stealing You & Your Flowers)

by SaintClaire



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Courfeyrac sticks his head in for 5 minutes, Fluff, I invent a new flower, Jehan is their own aesthetic, Jehanparnasse Week 2019, M/M, Montparnasse POV, Montparnasse is a thief, Nonbinary Jehan, flirting in a marquee tent, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 03:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21500842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaintClaire/pseuds/SaintClaire
Summary: He trails his fingers over a delicate vine of orchids, his fingertips sliding off the petals.  He’s so mesmerised by the flowers that he turns around and gets a shock, having completely forgotten that flower stalls generally have an owner.The flower seller is almost invisible, blending into the sea of leafy green things.They look like someone who was born from the cup of a tulip, a Thumbelina among the gardens.  They sit cross-legged on top of a wooden table, holding a mobile to their ear with one hand, the other hand controlling a watering can that is slowly emptying into the pot plant at their feet.  Their eyes are wide, and there’s the faintest of blushes on their cheeks as they stare directly at Montparnasse.
Relationships: Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Promise (I’m Stealing You & Your Flowers)

**Author's Note:**

> A friend put me onto the Jehanparnasse Week prompt challenge on tumblr, prompt word was 'promise'. I am incapable of writing things without giving other characters a cameo, but I feel like this still fits the spirit.

Claquesous falls asleep on his feet somewhere between his dressing room and the front door. Montparnasse swears liberally as throws Claquesous’ arm over his shoulders and drags him out of the car, grunting a goodbye at Babet as he yawned at him, flipping him a sleepy hand of acknowledgement.

He hauls Claquesous’ arse up the stairs, flinging him in the front door and sidestepping out of the way as his friend hits the floor like a sack of bricks. 

He considers the situation for a moment, and then fetches a blanket, throwing it over Claquesous so it hides the hideous colour of his shirt. If he could be bothered, he’d cut it off him and burn it, but well – he really can’t be bothered. The effort involved isn’t something Montparnasse feels like bestowing on someone so idiotic as to wear the damn thing in the first place. 

It shouldn’t matter how tired he is when he dresses after finishing a show, there are _limits._

He shoves a pillow under Claquesous’ head, kicks his feet to the side so they won’t catch on the door and leaves whistling. 

…

The sky is bright and 6am is a time he despises, but it’s not so bad on this side of the night, mellowed from the long night dancing underground.

Paris is soft in the early light, the sun still safely hidden behind the buildings, golden light spilling between the silhouettes and streaking across the sky. Very few people are out and about, and he unties his cravat with a sigh, draping the material around his neck and fishing sunglasses out of one of the many pockets on the inside of his coat. 

He doesn’t live very far from Claquesous’ apartment, so he walks back to the flat. A few early morning joggers stare at him in askance, taking in the tailed jacket and the brocade waistcoat, the glitter smeared liberally down his face. 

He smirks at them in return and shoves his hands in his pockets, tilting his chin to be the very image of the arrogant hedonist and walks on. 

…

He’s rarely on this side of town, so early in the morning, and he’s surprised when he finds the street blocked off with markets. 

He debates going around it, before deciding that he might as well get coffee while he’s here and besides – market stalls are renowned for their shiny trinkets. It’s been too long since he lifted something just for the fun of it. 

He wanders down the road, passing tents without going in. He stands out in the early morning crowd, and the shop keepers watch him warily, despite the fact he’s done nothing. It’s a waste of time though – there’s nothing worth his attention here. He’s about to leave, tired of aimlessly wandering and ready to fall into bed when he spies another tent, almost hidden behind a candlemaker and someone selling organic honey. He slips between them, only to catch his breath as he steps in.

The tiny Eden is so lush that Montparnasse has to take off his sunglasses in order to be able to see properly, a sinkhole of dark soil and rustling greenery.

There are three walls of solid green, interspersed with bright blooms of flowers. Pot plants and bouquets are scattered on boxes of various heights all over the ground, creating an open maze as Montparnasse winds his way deeper under the canvas.

He trails his fingers over a delicate vine of orchids, his fingertips sliding off the petals. He’s so mesmerised by the flowers that he turns around and gets a shock, having completely forgotten that flower stalls generally have an owner.

The flower seller is almost invisible, blending into the sea of leafy green things. 

They look like someone who was born from the cup of a tulip, a Thumbelina among the gardens. They sit cross-legged on top of a wooden table, holding a mobile to their ear with one hand, the other hand controlling a watering can that is slowly emptying into the pot plant at their feet. Their eyes are wide, and there’s the faintest of blushes on their cheeks as they stare directly at Montparnasse.

Montparnasse looks at the rosebush that is slowly drowning in a pool of water, the watering can slack in the flower seller’s hand, and raises his eyebrows. 

“Hmmunk!” squawks the flower seller, and leaps off the table. It wobbles dangerously as they scramble away, and Montparnasse reaches out to steady it with a hand. He can hear a man laughing on the other end of the phone, and flower seller hastily calls a goodbye into the phone and hangs up, cutting off their friend. Their face is flushed bright red as they crouch on the ground, tipping the rosebush on its side to let the excess water run out. 

Montparnasse spies the ‘Jehan’ nametag on their shirt even as he steps out of the way to avoid the steady stream of water now trickling directly at his boots. 

Jehan hastily wipes the ground in front of him in an effort to dispel the water, wobbling precariously on their toes as the heavy terracotta pot lurches to one side. Montparnasse sinks onto one knee to help, not quite sure what the hell he’s doing. “I’m so sorry,” Jehan mumbles, their face still as red as their hair. 

Montparnasse makes sure the little garden fairy won’t be squashed by the pot before he answers. “For what?” he asks playfully, winking at them.

Jehan stares at him for a minute before jumping back to their feet, wiping their hands on their shirt before they realise what they are doing, and stop, cringing. Jehan’s shirt is already covered with a healthy layer of dirt and potting mix. There are tiny little flowers poked through the petal shaped cut-outs on the top of their shoulders, and Montparnasse is fairly sure there’s moss growing into the fabric against the knees of their skirt. Something tinkles as they shift awkwardly from one foot to another, and the hem of their skirt whisks aside for just long enough for Montparnasse to glimpse the silver anklets flashing above their feet, before the muddy material falls back and hides them from view again. Their feet are bare.

They smile at him, recovering from their previous moment of embarrassment. Montparnasse feels his cheeks grow warm, and he has to turn away before they can see his own red cheeks. He hides his face in a bouquet of lavender, and breathes in deep, twisting so he can keep looking at Jehan over the purple stems.

Jehan shifts a little closer, and Montparnasse grins wildly into the flowers. “Do you need flowers?” they try. “Everyone who comes here needs flowers. They don’t always know it, but they do.”

Montparnasse hums, and stands up to his full height, unconsciously twitching his jacket so it falls in an aesthetically straight line down his back, showing off his frame. “You could help me find something,” he says, burying his face in a new bouquet of roses.

Jehan reaches out and adjusts one of the flowers right in front of Montparnasse’s mouth. The petals brush against his lips as Jehan lays it to rest against another flower, and their hand lingers a moment before they pull it back.

“Something that smells pretty?” they offer, one hand already reaching towards one of the walls of green. 

Montparnasse shrugs, standing up again and sidestepping a column of lilies to spin a slow circle around Jehan, who shifts slowly to face him with every step he takes.

“How about something that looks pretty?” he offers back, letting his eyes flit over Jehan as he says it. “Something to take home.”

Jehan is only a step away from him. He could easily reach out and touch, reach out and _take_ , but he keeps his hands to himself, where they cannot crush anything delicate.

Their eyes light up at his words, taking another step into him before suddenly turning and racing away. Jehan runs frantically around the stall, and Montparnasse watches in amusement as they unearth what seems to be most of their goods, before finally pouncing on a wooden crate. They shove the ceramic pot plant into his arms without relinquishing their hold, and he stares at it in confusion. 

Dirt. No flowers, no leaves, just dirt.

“It will seed by the end of the week,” Jehan explains, wiping stray curls out of their eyes and tucking them under the bandana. “It will be beautiful. I have these growing all over my apartment.” Montparnasse makes a noise of interest, and winds himself into Jehan’s space, pressing against them until they are backing up against the table. Jehan’s smile is the brightest thing in the green light. They curl their fingers over the rim of the pot, and press until it digs into Montparnasse’s chest. 

“So you can have it, but you’ll need to bring it back so I can see them.” The emphasis is heavy when they announce he needs to _bring it back_ , and Montparnasse looks at them. His lips twitch. 

“I take it I’ll have to come back in person then?”

Jehan’s face reddens, but they meet Montparnasse’s eye directly, challenging him to refuse. “Yes.”

Montparnasse nods, thoughtfully. “And if it really is so close to seeding… I should probably see as you soon as possible, I suppose. Just in case.”

He moves his fingers slightly, so they are brushing Jehan’s slightly where they are holding onto the pot as well.

“You probably should” Jehan answers. Their smile is sweet, glowing on their freckled face as Montparnasse flirts back, assured now that he isn’t playing some cruel trick.

“Just as well the markets are open tomorrow then, as well. Will you be here?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” says Jehan breathlessly, and Montparnasse smirks. “I’m here every Sunday.”

Montparnasse slots his fingertips into the crease between Jehan’s fingers and palm. “Then I guess I’ll be here tomorrow then.”

“Do you promise?” Jehan looked at him from under their eyelashes, and Montparnasse risks taking one hand off the pot to stroke a single finger over Jehan’s cheekbone, trailing down to flit over their bottom lip. 

“I promise.”

A man suddenly thrusts his head into the back of the tent between an invisible gap in the canvas panels, and Jehan leaps forwards in fright, ending up tucked between Montparnasse’s chest and the pot plant.

“Courfeyrac,” they sigh, relaxing against him. The newcomer grins at the two of them, looking somewhat manic. The man’s wild black hair is practically exploding off his head, and his grin has all the teeth of someone who had chosen to take his morning coffee through an IV line. 

“Well well,” Courfeyrac grins, and all of a sudden Montparnasse realises he’s person Jehan was speaking to on the phone, when he first came in. “Customers!”

Jehan wriggles out from under his arm and Montparnasse glares daggers at Courfeyrac, mourning the warmth of the little fae.

Courfeyrac is apparently not a man who is easily intimidated; however, he could just be so high on caffeine that all sense of self-preservation has gone out the window. “Hey dude, nice glitter!”

Montparnasse opens his mouth, not quite sure what’s about to come out but it will definitely be in full affront at being called _dude_ , before Jehan skips over to Courfeyrac and begins trying to push his head back out of the tent.

“You weren’t supposed to come back without coffee! Why are you back already?” Courfeyrac’s grin is a little horrifying, and Montparnasse idly wonders if he’s been on drugs at any point in the last 24 hours. 

“Enjolras got caught up debating ethical roasts with Grantaire again. No-one’s getting coffee for at least half an hour.” 

Jehan humphs and climbs up on a box for better leverage to resume pushing Courfeyrac’s head back out the gap. Their anklets jingle as they jump up, and Montparnasse stares at the sliver of ankle exposed, the silver chains swaying with charms he can’t quite make out. “So go! Find another coffee shop. Starbucks will do, if you really get desperate.”

Courfeyrac is laughing openly in Montparnasse’s direction, his teeth flashing as he smiles. “Or I can stay and meet your new customer. He looks like -“

Jehan crowed in triumph as Courfeyrac fell away from the canvas with an audible crash, taking out whatever unfortunate stack of boxes that was stacked behind him. He yelled something rude and cheerful as he got back up, making almost as much noise as when he fell down, and they listened as heavy footsteps clomped away. The crowd was starting to pick up, and Montparnasse glanced out the doorway of the marquee.

As loathe as he was to leave something so exquisite, some treasures were all the more beautiful for the wooing, rather than the stealing. 

He spies a white rosebud, tucked into a ready-made bouquet that’s swinging gently from the roof of the market stall. He takes it between his fingers, appraising the flawless petals, and plucks it from its companions. 

He steps close, making sure to slide one of his boots between both of Jehan’s feet, smiling slightly at their sharp intake of breath as he slides the rosebud behind their ear, tucking the tiny stem into their hair. 

He bends down far enough to brush his mouth directly against the shell of their ear, whispering “I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning,” before pressing a swift kiss against Jehan’s cheek and turning out of the tent. 

He glances over his shoulder as he leaves, and Jehan is looking after him, beaming in the middle of their plants, their cheeks flushed with joy. 

…

His bed is calling, he should probably check Claquesous does wake up at some point in the next 12 hours, and he has managed to arrange his own date for 6 o’ clock tomorrow morning, but he leaps up the stairs with a lighter foot than usual.

He has no plants in his flat. He’s never cared for them, isn’t even sure how to, and he hesitates in the kitchen doorway as he tries to think where a suitable spot for a plant would be. 

In the end, he puts it on the floor, tucked into the windowsill. Sun streams in, and plants like sun, right? He’s about to leave when he spies the tag, mostly buried between the dark soil and the edge of the pot. He pulls it out and holds it carefully, avoiding spilling the crumbling dirt onto the floor. 

He reads the name of the plant and grins wide, a sharp hint of teeth behind his smile.

  
 _Tulipa Thumbelina_ \- Thumbelina’s Tulip.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it!


End file.
